


Can You Feel My Heart

by SniperMoran



Series: Wingsgate Asylum [1]
Category: Wingsgate Asylum
Genre: Flashbacks and Memories, Voices in head, attempted suicide, stuck in the mad house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SniperMoran/pseuds/SniperMoran
Summary: The beautiful minds #Dusty and #Amaretto on twitter created the group @WingsgateRPG where I'm currently writing for the patient named Thomas J. Starling.Thomas is wrestling with the recent loss of his wife and children. He was locked away in Wingsgate accused of being the one to murder his family.But he couldn't have been the one to kill them...But all the evidence points to him being the murderer. He was found covered in their blood.Inner turmoil pulls him apart and drags him to a point he'd never reached before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnv0Vkjqv40
> 
> Song this fic is named from, and also drew bits of inspiration from.  
> 'I long for that feeling to not feel at all | The higher I get, the lower I'll sink | I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim.'

It was by pure chance that he'd been able to keep his sharp object hidden away from the searches by the nurses. He wasn't even sure why he had it, or why it was so important that it not be found-- 'But that isn't true. If it's found, then you get thrown in solitude, don't you? You wouldn't survive there, Tom.'  
The voice that spoke in his head was smooth and deep; it didn't quite sound like his own voice, but it had to be his voice, right? What other voice would be up there in his head speaking to him if it weren't his own voice?

He sat there on his bed, chin resting on his knuckles as he stared at the floor, not really seeing it. He heard the sing-song laughter of his wife, Claire. Heard the call of his beautiful daughter's voice, asking him to look over a painting she'd done. Heard the disgruntled complaining of his stubborn son, working away at his maths homework. He'd played that night over and over in his head, always with the same results. The same fucking laughter, the same questions and complaints, and then the dinner. It seemed like a simple dinner, nice, like any other night and then-- _ >You're not meant to know, Thomas, stop pushing.< _  
This voice was softer, almost...feminine sounding. It left him feeling as if he'd been touched gently and shushed.

But the feeling didn't last very long as the after images flooded into his head. The blood on his hands and the bloody hand-print on the wall where he'd turned the light on. His face in the mirror, spattered with the same dried crimson. His hair matted with it and sticking to his forehead. The strangled noise that echoed around the tiles of the bathroom, until he realized the sound was coming from his own mouth and it died away, the fear and confusion remaining written on his face and in his widened eyes. He tried to pull himself from the memories, tried to reel back and bring himself back into the stupid little dimly lit room with the crappy bed and the single dresser--but the memories carried on, dragging him farther down.  
He could even feel it; his feet against the cold tiles of the bathroom, and then against the hardwood and then the carpet as he rushed to the phone. He felt the weight of the receiver in his hand as he dialed the three numbers and waited. His voice sounded foreign in his ears, though, as he spoke to the woman on the other end, telling her all that he could. She kept asking if the blood was his, if he'd been hurt, if there was an intruder in the home-- but he didn't have the answers for those questions, just kept insisting that someone come, that she send someone.   
'[Somebody please help my family!] It was almost pathetic...you didn't even know what was going on and you were pleading for help.'  
"Shut up..." he breathed, reaching up to tug at his own hair, keeping from shaking his head. "Shut up..." he repeated, his heart racing as he worked to pull himself from those dreadful memories.  
'You wanted this, Thomas. You wanted to think about it--'  
 _ >Leave him alone, now. He wants out, so let him.< _

And just like that, he came crashing back, the cold of reality hitting him as the floor did. He'd fallen forward, smashing his face against the cold tiled floor. He could smell the bleach in his nose and felt the dull ache already starting in his cheek, even as he pushed himself up to rub at the sore spot.  
"What the /fuck/ is going on?" he growled, keeping his voice low. He didn't want to draw the attention of anyone passing by. Sure, he was in the nut-house, but he didn't need people looking at him or treating him like he belonged there.  
'Oh but you /do/ belong here, Thomas. This is a house of crazies, sure, but a house of murderers too~.'  
 _ >Stop that! You stop pushing him. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for--< _

But that feminine voice cut itself off and left questions floating around Thomas' head. If it weren't for--...who? What?  
That aside, why were these voices in his head like this? What did they kno--Stop it Thomas, the voices are just you. You don't know anything that you don't know so the voices don't know anything you don't know either. They're just you. You're not crazy, you can't be. You're a normal man, with a normal life and--  
'And what, Thomas? You think /normal/ people just up and snap one day and kill their wife and children like you did, huh? Think that's /normal/?'  
"But I didn't...I didn't do it...It wasn't me, I didn't kill them, I didn't do it!" he said, his voice getting louder and louder as he carried on through his denial.  
'If you didn't do it, Thomas, then who did? If you didn't do it, then how'd that blood--/their/ blood--get all over you? If /you/ didn't do it, /Thomas/, then /who/ /did/?'

"SHUT UP! Leave me alone! You're not real! You're not real and I didn't do it! I didn't kill them I didn't...I couldn't..." he curled into a ball on the cool floor, rocking ever so slightly as he dug his fingernails into his temples. His eyes were squeezed shut against it all, but the burning tears managed to sneak their way past and slip down his cheeks, pooling on the tiles beneath his face. "Stop it...stop...please...please make it stop....I can't...I can't do this...I can't take this...I didn't...I didn't do it...I couldn't have..." he sobbed softly, wishing the voices and the memories away. He craved silence, numb, anything but this.

He felt an odd warmth and a strength surge through him then and he stopped trembling, his tears ceasing in their falling. Carefully, he pushed himself up from his place on the ground and went to his dresser, digging through the spare boring uniform clothes until his fingers brushed over his secret sharp object. He didn't even remember where he'd managed to get it from, or how, but the only thought going through his head then was to dig it into his own flesh.   
He'd been hurt many times before, it came with being a mechanic; sometimes you got your hands dirty, sometimes you got a bit scraped and scuffed up. He was no stranger to physical pain, but the feeling that was in his mind and was flooding his body... He /wanted/ to feel the pain, /wanted/ this.  
He didn't even bat an eye as he pressed the sharp end into the weak skin of his wrist, dragging it downward, toward the crook of his elbow. The flood of warmth and the blossoming of crimson was almost immediate, but it barely registered in his head, only bringing out a soft hiss from between his barely parted lips.  
'Good boy Thomas...now the other side...'

He stared at the trickle of blood down his arm, the drops slipping to the floor. It was mesmerizing. After a moment or two, he turned his attentions to the other arm, bringing the sharp point to the skin there, digging it in and dragging it down to mirror the other side. As this arm, too, blossomed beautifully, he let his sharp object slip to the floor. Its job was done. As he stared at his arms, it didn't even register that he might die. It hadn't even crossed his mind that this was a stupid thing to do, that his family wouldn't have approved, that Claire--bless her heart--would be crushed that it'd come to something like this for him.  
Body growing cold, Thomas toppled over, resting his head on his pillow, his eyes staring off towards the opposite wall but not really seeing it. He wasn't there, in that room, not really. He was off somewhere better, somewhere warm, though his fingers were going numb.  
He didn't even register when the nurse came in and started shouting for help. Didn't register when he was pulled from his bed and carted off elsewhere to be patched up. Didn't register that he was being reprimanded, asked questions. Everything was cold, and muffled. Everything was numb, and nothing hurt..  
And it remained like that, until he was alone later in the silent confines of solitary.

_ >Look what you've done now, Thomas...< _  
It registered.  
It wasn't his voice, in a more feminine tone.  
That was Claire's voice.  
Claire's voice in his head.  
And she'd been protecting him.  
Like she'd always been protecting him.

The soft padded room was filled with his strangled screams, and cries, and sobs, all until his voice had gone hoarse and he couldn't make a sound anymore.  
And then he lay there, crying. Crying until he ran out of tears.  
Maybe he did belong here after all.  
In the nut-house.  
The house of crazies.  
The house of murderers.


End file.
